


The cries of Argentina

by Herodia



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - Latin America
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asthma, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Gun Kink, Homophobic Language, M/M, Men Crying, Metahemeralism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Political Incorrectness, Postmodernism, Satire, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodia/pseuds/Herodia
Summary: Pinochet gets his hands on one of the most famous enemies of his ideology and he isn't just handling him to CIA.





	The cries of Argentina

Slowly, the effect of the drugs were fading off and his heavy lids finally allowed him to come from darkness to a blurry image of sharp light and unsteady shadows. His head hurt from the loud scream of a helicopter engine.

“I thought you wouldn’t wake up at all. Shame. I was ready to celebrate.” His vision was clearing up, but still wasn't clear enough to recognize the man before him.

“You don’t have to hurry, we have all the time of the world if I wish to.” The man’s figure was hidden under a long coat; it was clear by its length that the man was a right wing imperialist. Only they had the need to show their supposed superiority by clothes so extravagant.

“That’s just a hypothetical statement of course. We will have to land at some point.” Now, when his vision fully returned, he realized that it was actually an oversized cloak the man wore and he recognized the badges on it. Chile.

“You.” He coughed. “CIA dog.” His hands were tied behind his back and so were his legs. Even in that uncomfortable situation, he managed to sit up, not giving the man the pleasure of laying at his feet a moment more. He looked around. A helicopter. It started to make sense.

“So you are all awake now? I shouldn’t be surprised. They went easy with the drugs on you. As you can see, we already gave your comrades their last salvation. You know the saying: Better dead than red. And I’m always willing to help a man to restore his honor.”

_ His comrades. His men. Has he really- _

“I heard a lot about you, Pinochet. The whispers about your cowardice spread around the continent. Assassinating people without trials for their ideology surely makes you worthy of so much as using the word  _ honor _ .”

“Don't pretend you and your comrades are any better, Mister Guevara, or is it Doctor Guevara?” He didn't bother correcting the man. “As far as I know you aren't much for Hippocratic ideals.”

Pinochet moved, walking circles around him; he most likely was attempting to mimic the threatening aura of a predator that had his prey already trapped and was only waiting for the right moment; sadly, to Che he looked more like a old balding animal kept in a zoo, walking circles in boredom.

“Is talking all you capitalists can do? Because you are bad even at that,” Che spit.

“You are no better, revolutionary. Your ability to recognize that you are in a situation where taunting has became only foolish is as bad your knowledge of basic economy. You should be begging for forgiveness instead of talking back.” Pinochet stopped before him and grabbed his jaw. Che jerked his head in attempt to bite him, but the dictator was quicker to pull away. A gloved hand slapped his cheek.

“What is economy if it's based on oppressing the poor?” he spit. His cheek burnt, but the pain was nothing in comparison of the pain of proletariat.

“Profiting,” Pinochet answered simply. “Leave the ideology talk. Do you think you could turn me like your dear Fidel? Don't be absurd. Speaking of him, you’ve already guessed who gave the CIA the lead. Right?”

“Lying swine,” Che hissed. Deep down, he knew the man spoke true, but he was never going to be willing to admit it. “Unlike you, he would not betray a comrade.”

“Swine is a strong word. Especially when I'm not the one we had to hose down and then wait until you dried off before we could move you into the helicopter because just like a wet dog, you reeked even worse once wet.”

“As if your bourgeois filth smelled any better than that of a real man.”

“It actually does.” Pinochet turned on his heel, the cloak floating around him dramatically. “For example we do own baths and soap, but you know that as I recall. You aren’t a poor man yourself. You were not born into the proletariat.”

“I gave up the privileges of my birth in the means of socialism.”

“You are a fool, Doctor Guevara. You could have kept your comfortable life, maybe even chose a political path in Argentina. Alas, you chose to run around in the forest with a rifle for nothing but a broken ideology, and see where that lead you.” Pinochet walked as he spoke, his hands behind his back. “And don’t look at me like that. Look at what you have done to Cuba. What Marxism has done to my country or your beloved China. Socialism is the ideology of destruction and it has nothing to do with democracy, even though you  _ communists _ love to use her name. I know men of your ideology, Doctor Guevara, and it’s my honor to rid the world of them” 

“Say what you want, Pinochet,” Che coughed. “I can’t hear you over the cries of Argentina.” It sounded less intimidating than he planned to, as he had a hard time swallowing coughs. He felt his chest tighten, of course his body would pick the worst possible time to be difficult.

“Are your prized cigars finally taking their toll? I should be quick then, if I wish to be the one to finish you off.”

Che coughed, his body bending at the waist as he did, he looked to the floor. No way was he giving the dictator any pleasure of correcting him, that his coughing was not the result of his smoking habit. He wouldn’t let  _ that  _ humiliate him of all things. He spit on the helicopter floor, his saliva was stained with mucus. “I could use some right now,” he said instead, half joking and half hoping.

“What, a cigar?“ Pinochet laughed. “I’m afraid I didn’t take any up here, though I could offer you a better thing to fill your mouth with. My darling colleague even made a bet that no matter how much you hate the ones of the right wing, you would suck my dick for a cigar if we let you starve for a few days. Shame we are running out of stock when it comes to Cuban ones, we have no room for wasting it on prisoners. I must admit, they are the best that came from your dear country.”

Pinochet’s hand moved under is cloak and for a moment it seemed like he was unbuttoning his pants and Che froze. There was only so many torture practices he could tolerate. Instead Pinochet took out a fancy engraved handgun. It was the type that is given as a gift or was inherited; either way it was worn as the most masculine piece of jewellery to prove one’s superiority. One that only the highest rank general can wear. It was just as disgusting as his cock would be.

“Are you going to shoot me with that meretricious thing? You could have left me to die in that forest as well. Rotting to death would bring me more prestige than being shot by something like this.”

Pinochet smirked.

“Killing you would be a waste. After all the chaos you have caused, you deserve worse than death.” Before Che could make a sarcastic remark, the gun was pushed against his lips.

“Open your mouth,  _ Comandante _ . I heard occupying your mouth helps with tobacco withdrawal. You should thank me for this golden opportunity to forget about your cigars for a moment.” Naturally, Che kept his mouth shut with all force he could, never in his life were his lips shut as tight. Whatever this man had planned, he was not cooperating.

“I think you need a clear demonstration,” Pinochet said, taking the gun away from Che’s mouth. He loaded it before his eyes. He looked at the gun like a man would look at his firstborn son. With pride and arrogance in his eyes.

“You mentioned the cries of Argentina. Do it for her then.”

There were many sarcastic remarks Che wanted to say, but he didn't dare open his mouth. Pinochet pressed the muzzle of the fancy gun against his lips. “Did you know many babies die because people still don't understand they will suffocate them if they cover both their mouth and their nose? Of course, this happens only to the lower classes and they are fast to make new offspring to substitute the unfortunate ones, so the loss doesn't matter that much.” Pinochet didn't seem to be much annoyed by Che’s resistance, as if he’d expected it. Che, on the other hand, wished to punch the man for his daring words and behind his back he pulled at the rope around his wrist until it tore his skin. “That's why the proletariat will never be able to rule.” He forced Che’s nostrils together with his hand, pressing on them just a bit too hard. Little had he noticed Che’s breath was already unstable. “They can hardly take care of their families, let alone a country.” Che did what he could to save his breath. He felt his nose cracking under Pinochet’s hold. Soon he felt blood filling his nose. He knew that if he didn’t get his nostrils opened soon, it would flow in his throat and fill his airways. It was the humiliation of death at his enemy’s hands versus the violation of his honor. He was sure death was the less awful opinion, alas, his body didn't listen to him. After all he still had revolutions to lead and a world to be freed. He opened his mouth.

“Good boy.” The hand that left his nose hit his head in a wicked parody of praising a dog.   
The gun was pushed into his mouth as blood from his freed nose poured down on it. He bit down into the steel, knowing that it wouldn’t help him to get rid of it, but taking joy in scratching the pretty engravings. Soon his teeth ached, but he could stand that.

“I can’t think of a better humiliation than fill your mouth with imperialistic cock.” Though Che thought he already knew enough about the dictator, surprises seemed to never end. So he was capitalist and a faggot. All the more Che will enjoy his revenge, when he got it. “Alas, I would not trust communist with a crippled dog, let alone my cock.”

Che was doing his best not to give the man the pleasure of choking, but his body, not understanding the concept of honor, wasn't cooperating. He felt his chest tightening and every breath was getting harder and harder. The press in his throat wasn't helping either. Soon he could no longer hold his gag reflex and stop his body from trembling. Tears filled his eyes and Pinochet laughed.

“Just as weak as your comrades, choking on a gun. You couldn’t even take a real cock.”

_ I’m not choking, that’s asthma, you faggot!  _ he screamed in his head, wishing he could spit that in his face.

Pinochet pushed the gun further in his throat, it tasted of iron and blood that he knew was his own. “Who do you cry for now? Your dear comrades, or is it really your Argentina that touches your heart enough to make you cry? If you were a woman I would call it cute, but for a man it's a sign of weakness.”

Che wanted to scream at him. He couldn't be so stupid to not know tears of choking have less to do with weakness than with basic bodily functions. Pinochet was either taunting him or was so blinded by his capital so much that he forgot how basic human bodies work. Che wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. He knew he had to stand it for his comrades and for the world itself, so he stayed in place, leaving his useless struggles until they stopped causing him unnecessary pain. Saving the little breath he had left. Instead he closed his eyes and waited. When the gun was finally pulled from his throat, he had slightly different things to say than a moment before, which was mostly caused by the time he had to reconsider and chose his next words. 

“I cry for no such a thing as a country. My tears are dedicated to the proletariat.”

Next to him Pinochet laughed, waving his bloodstained handgun. “You must cry a lot then, Doctor Guevara.”

He examined his gun, frowning at the marks Che’s teeth left on in. “It was a gift,” Pinochet said as if Che cared. He wiped Che’s blood and saliva on his cloak, leaving dark stains on it,  almost as if he didn't have enough stolen money for a cloth made for this purpose. “It doesn't matter. I can buy a new one.”

He walked behind him; Che didn't look after him. He didn’t bother to turn his head for a capitalist swine.

“You aren’t such a good boy after all, Che. Destroying someone else’s property. I guess you need to be taught a lesson.”

Without further warning, Pinochet kicked his upper back. There was little Che could do to fight back as he was pushed to the ground by Pinochet’s boot. More kicks followed the first, falling all over his back, some hitting his waist. One particularly hard kick landed on his head, making him dull for a second; when he opened his eyes, the world around him moved, everything was made of unstable blurry images. He laid his head on the helicopter floor, hoping for it to pass quickly.

He felt hands around him, lifting him from the floor. “Fat fuck.” Pinochet’s voice sounded far away, even though Che knew that he could very well be screaming into his ear. He was pulled across the helicopter. He did his best to struggle in Pinochet’s arms, tried to kick him off with his tied legs. Even in this uncomfortable position he didn’t give up on fighting. In the end, after one rather delightfully landed kick, Pinochet was the one to give up and let him fall back to the ground. He landed hard and barely managed to hold his head up to not hurt it further. Another series of kicks from Pinochet followed. Some on his back and some hitting his head. He even went as far as stomping on his tied legs. His military boots were heavy and Che felt his bones crack. He felt he just lost his fibula, but that was just a harsh guess. If he was lucky he lost only one leg, instead of both. He was no longer sure which of his legs was which and he was getting tired of the dizziness that followed his headache.

At last the kicks stopped and he was being manhandled again. Whatever Pinochet had in mind, he really wanted to achieve it and with the distance of the helicopter door closing between them, Che had an idea what Pinochet thought of.  _ How many things did he think he would possibly achieve by killing a man?  _ he wondered.

His theories of dying turned out invalid, when Pinochet slammed his face on the small helicopter window, the hit was soon followed by his body pressing on Che’s own to hold him down in an uncomfortable closeness. Blankly Che realized that he hadn’t been this close with even his wife in years. He was disgusted.

“Look down, I prepared a sightseeing trip just for you,” Pinochet said in a parody of a military order and Che listened to his command. He looked out of the window, where he saw a city in its worst form. The slum-like houses of the poor, leading a long way around, occasionally rounding around factory buildings that covered everything in filthy smoke.

“I wanted to show you Buenos Aires to give you something to cry about. Alas, it was an unrealistic wish. Too unsafe. But I’m sure you will appreciate this the same.”

Was he going to throw him down into the ghetto? Che wasn't sure if he should laugh aloud or stay silent.

“Another of my generals suggested a rather particular way to show you your place. He has long experience with keeping prisoners in place. Humiliation, he said, breaks the spirit like no other.” His sweating body pressed closer to Che, so close he could whisper into his ear. “You should thank your commie luck we didn't get any dog fast enough to bring him to the helicopter. I liked that idea the most.”

Che was familiar with that kind of torture, or more precisely of execution. Dogs are taught to tear men apart before the eyes of their comrades as an example of one’s power over his prisoners. It was disgusting, lower than he would ever go as a leader.

“Well, if man wants things done, he has to do them himself.”

Without warning Pinochet digged his fingers under Che’s belt, scratching his hips with his nails, and pushed his pants down. Shocked, Che tried to pull him off, but with his already damaged strength and uncomfortable position, Pinochet easily overpowered him. He kicked his already broken leg and Che cursed.

“Fucking faggot!”

“I'm not the one getting a cock in his ass,  _ Che,”  _ Pinochet laughed, as Che tried his best to struggle. The rope that held his hands cut so deep in his skin, it felt as if his hands were severed at his wrists as he was looking for control of them.

“That’s what you may think, faggot!” The implication he made was gross, but not as gross as what Pinochet was about to do. “I will cut your cock off for this!” It was as if the filthy bourgeois got bored of the eternal joy of their stolen capital and entertained itself by fucking each other’s asses. Maybe even worse places. They probably got as far as getting back to fucking goats just to feel some excitement. Or horses, wasn’t that what Russian royals used to do? Or maybe even their pets-

“Sure you will,” Pinochet said behind him, but Che wasn’t really listening to him anymore, because it just occurred him what Pinochet had meant when he spoke about dogs. Che felt puke creeping up his throat. He swallowed on instinct.

“F- faggot!” His struggling was useless, his pants fell to his bound ankles. He never felt as vulnerable as in that moment. Maybe back when he was a baby and his father left him naked on a freezing balcony in winter to make his son stronger; he’d felt the same hopelessness as now, when he deep down knew he couldn’t overpower the abusive dictator. That didn’t mean he wasn’t prepared to die fighting rather than give in.

“I could offer you to be gentle if you plead,” Pinochet offered.

As an answer Che only laughed at him. Instead of pleading, he jerked his body as hard as he could. This time Pinochet was pushed a step back and Che, no longer supported by the other's body, fell to the ground. Pinochet paused his speech. Just as Che was about to kick him, a heavy boot hit his back and pushed him to the ground. “Alas, I don’t ever go easy on a communist,” Pinochet finished, pinning him hard to the helicopter floor.

The sound of a zipper and the rustle of fabric behind him came almost unnoticed; he knew what was going to happen and that he should be terrified. But the world felt unreal as his insides tightened worse than before. His body lacked air and sharp pain all across his head was making it hard for him to think, he must have hit his head again when he fell, not even noticing over the adrenalin flowing in his blood to help him fight back, but he noticed now. Not that he needed much thinking to know he was fucked, or was about to be anyway. Still he twitched his body, the quick moves paining him all over. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Pinochet to use him.

His struggling made Pinochet grab his hips with both hands to hold him still, before pulling his ass up as if he was some cheap alley whore. Startled, he felt Pinochet’s hands on his ass, spreading his buttcheeks and Che wanted to crawl away, but he couldn’t, as he was pushed against the wall before him. He felt only relief when Pinochet cursed and pulled back from him.

“You’d better be a good boy this time, Che.”

The rope around his legs loosened. Immediately he tried to kick Pinochet off; his leg only brushed the fabric of Pinochet’s pants as he missed. Pinochet didn’t seem to mind his struggle as he pulled up from the floor, dragging Che with him. Che’s face soon hit the window again.

Pinochet’s body held him in place. His broken leg was giving him little chance of a self-reliant stability. He felt the man’s body twitch behind him; he tried to look back, but Pinochet’s hand pinned his head to the window. Before he could prepare himself for what was to come (if preparing for that was even possible), pain overtook any other sense of his body.

Pinochet didn’t waste time pushing in him and if he had any breath to scream with, he would now. The pain was almost unbearable and he said that as a man who had felt a lot of pain in his life.

His body wasn’t cooperating, either. There were many battles in his life he’d won, but those he fought with his own body were always the hardest. He couldn’t fight his disease as much as he couldn’t fight tears that were now falling from his eyes and the redness that filled his face accompanying them like a silent consort. He was always an ugly crier, his mother told him so. 

“Crying already? You communists truly are weak,” Pinochet taunted and then he laughed. “That is just my fingers, now just imagine what my cock will feel like,  _ faggot _ .” He let the last word sink in the air to surround Che like an invisible aura of shame.

Pinochet stroked his fingers back and forward in his asshole and Che felt his insides tear with each move. His breathing was getting harder and the puke in his throat was eager to get out. He didn’t have much power left to keep it in with, all he could do was lean to one side so he wouldn’t stain his shirt. Which wasn’t the easiest task either, because his broken leg was little help with supporting him and he was held up only by Pinochet’s body and the fingers in his ass. There was too much pain to focus on, but the one of rape was the worst. It damaged not only his body, but even his pride. Pain was something Che took with honor. That couldn't be said about rape. There was no honor to find in it.

Pinochet was stroking his fingers inside of him and each stroke felt deeper and hurt worse than the last. Just as Che was about to comfort himself, that he at least wasn’t giving him a show, Pinochet crooked his fingers inside of him and a sob escaped Che’s mouth. Which gave Pinochet a reason to laugh at him as he pulled his fingers out of Che. It should have felt relieving, but the pain stayed as intense as before.

Pinochet leaned forward and shoved his fingers in Che’s face. They were covered in blood. He didn’t have to guess twice to know where it came from.

“You are not only as tight as a virgin, but you even bleed like one,” he said, before wiping his bloody fingers on Che’s cheek. Giving him some cruel alternative of savage war paint.

“That's ironic, considering what they say about you. Chasing women of all kind, leaving bastards all over the world. Is giving yourself to everyone what appeals to you so much with communism? You should be grateful, then. I give you the opportunity to share yourself further. Just close your eyes and think of Argentina.”

A quick move behind him was all warning he got, before Pinochet thrust inside him. He didn’t even make a ‘bigger than my fingers’ remark, which honestly surprised Che, given all the taunts he received before. Alas, even the absence of size jokes didn’t make the pain any more bearable.

Every millimeter Pinochet pushed inside of him burnt like hell, or like hell would burn if it wasn’t just a false construct, made by those in power to prove their superiority.

Che tried to keep silent, to bear it with his teeth pressed together and without making any sound, as he would during any other torture, but his body didn’t allow him that. Instead he was gasping for the air and a occasional cough escaped his lips. All he could do was struggle like a puppy in a bag thrown into water. Or that pup they choked back in the forest. If there was a God,  _ this  _ would be his punishment for killing that puppy. He knew it.

“Cigar superpower, I see,” Pinochet referred to his coughing, making the same bad joke not once, but twice in case Che already forgot it, which he didn’t and he didn’t consider it funny even the first time. Jealous bitch probably had nothing in his damn country to be proud about.

_ “ _ Fuck you,” Che coughed, but what came from his mouth was mix of sounds that could either mean nothing or be a Russian slur.

The pain of unwanted penetration seemed to never stop. It felt like he was pushing further and further in his body, tearing him from the inside. He was sure Pinochet’s cock couldn’t be that big. If both of his hands weren’t on him, he would believe he was using something instead of fucking him with his own cock. Che knew it had to be his body’s own confusion that made the pain seem so eternal, but it didn’t make it feel any less real.

Pinochet’s cock brushed on something inside of him and he wanted to scream as it sent unwanted feeling to his own cock. He was not stupid, he knew that he, like the rest of men, had a prostate, but he never wanted confirmation of it. Not even when women offered it, let alone like this. He would rather choke on his own puke than let his cock harden by being violated by a man. It didn’t help that when he started pulling back, his cock did it again. Che was starting to think Pinochet did that on purpose to humiliate him further. Luckily for him it didn’t happen again during the next few strokes and by time it did, Che barely felt it as he knew he would never be able to shit again. If he didn’t know better, he would believe his gut was being smashed. Pinochet hardly bothered pulling halfway out before he pushed in again. His movement was quick and merciless as he thrusted into Che.

Through tears in his eyes Che looked down into the city under them, it wasn’t so different from Havana, at least not from his view up in the air. People on the streets seemed not to be bothered by the military helicopter flying over their heads. They were probably used to them as much as they were used to totality and quite disappearances of their acquaintances. It was truly tragic.

Pinochet gave his ass an exceptionally strong thrust and it brought him back to reality. It shouldn’t feel this bad, he was sure he’d taken worse wounds before, it was just that in that moment he couldn’t remember  _ when.  _ It wasn’t the type of pain that decreases with time, nor  was it the pain one would get used to. You get used to limping on a broken leg, or running with a gunshot wound. But this was just getting worse and worse. His wounds were repeatedly abused by the dictator’s member as he thrusted in him again and again. Maybe he had withstood worse wounds before, but he was never forced to withstand such humiliation. In his life he was often in situations that he was sure would lead to his death; he took them all with a clear head and an opened mind, but right now, he was close to losing it. He was tempted to just let go of the fight. Let his breath finally take him out. Close his swollen eyes and never open them again.

But he was too proud for that. That wasn’t the death of a revolutionary. He still had things to do in this world. He had people looking up to him, waiting for him to lead them to the victory. There was a world full of injustice waiting for him to save it. Those were the thoughts that made him continue fighting. The thoughts that took him from that blurry world of suffocation and put him back in the reality. The pain was real, Pinochet’s hard breath on his back was real.

For the last time he bounced his body back, not caring about the damage it made when he practically impaled himself on Pinochet’s cock. It might have felt like stabbing himself, but it made his abuser take a half-step back. It was almost unbelievable that a man of his experience would lose control so easily, just because he was too deep in sticking his cock in a hole. A slight move back was all Che needed to get himself off Pinochet’s cock. It was a small victory and as a guerrilla he was used to taking advantage of those.

He tried to turn around, knowing that with the lack of space even that would be problematic and before he could face his enemy, Pinochet’s body was pressed on his again. He was hardly even halfway turned; his shoulder was pressed hard to the wall and his hurt leg didn’t make it easy to hold his balance; with no choice but to fall or be abused again, he fell to the ground under Pinochet’s legs.

He landed on his ass, which was both a good defence to prevent a further violation and a very unpleasant pain trigger.

“Commie fuck,” Pinochet cursed. His speech mood slowly returning to him.

A hard kick landed on Che’s stomach and he didn’t really mind, even as it would most likely cause more damage than rape ever would; he would prefer to have his gut smashed from the outside over the shame of taking another man. He watched Pinochet stroke his cock. At least it didn’t seem like he planned on putting it inside of him again; the man must have been close, so it was not worth the fight Che was prepared to give. His cock was covered in dark blood, it gave him good enough lube to stroke himself over Che’s beaten body. To his little comfort, Pinochet was not as huge as it seemed before. His asshole still burnt but it couldn't have done much fatal damage inside of him. He skipped comparing his size to his own, as that was something no one but a pathetic man did.  

“You are pathetic,” Pinochet said over his unstable breath. It almost seemed that Che wasn’t the only one experiencing asthma attack right now. Except for him it was actual disease and not just a lack of stamina.  “All you talk about is fighting for the poor. I bet your grandchildren fight for carrots.” Che wasn’t sure he heard the man right, but if he did, it was truly the most obscure taunt he ever received and people taunted him a lot in his life.

“Or will Fidel take care of them before they can step on your path? It would be amusing. But not unexpected.” Was the fate of Che’s hypothetical grandchildren what got it up for the man? Or was it just the humiliation? Pinochet was gross. He knew Chilean wine sucked, but there must have been something in his rotten land to give Pinochet a better lay than his enemy. It must have been a power thing, he decided. 

He knew he was slowly losing it, as his breath was disappearing. His vision broke and he saw a blurred image of Pinochet over him. Red stain was all over his lower body, at least he could now say he’d painted the bourgeois dictator red. 

When he finally came, it was all surreal. In a moment the red mixed with light and before he realized what was happening, a sticky cum fell across his chest and under his jaw. He took effort in bending to one side and wiping as much as he could from his skin to his shoulder.

“At last, now you know where you belong, commie scum,” Pinochet spit on him, his saliva ended on Che’s cheek, but he barely noticed as it wasn’t the most disgusting thing on him in that moment. He just hoped Pinochet wasn’t the kind of man to piss on their victims once he was done with them. He wasn’t sure how much more humiliation he could stand on his broken legs. Not that he would mind, maybe it would wash of the terrible odor of cum on his body and Pinochet would have to smell it all the way to the landing zone. Piss was probably intolerable for his bourgeois nose. Too bad he had already enough of reeking puke and blood to smell on his way down. 

Pinochet continued talking, but Che hardly registered the words. He fought to keep his eyes open, but even with his lids up, his eyes soon rolled back and gave him up to the darkness. He’d bore much worse, he thought. He would survive this. This wasn’t proper end for a revolutionary. He needed to show he was stronger than that. It was not Argentina his last thought turned to, before everything truly vanished. He thought of Cuba. He left half his heart in Havana and he was coming back.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> As much as I tried to keep the characterization correct and work with sources, I sometimes slipped and added something that came purely of my imagination rather than sourced facts. There's no confirmation that Pinochet had a virgin fetish, nor that Che's mother called him an ugly crier. (And of course, they most likely never fucked.)   
> On the other hand a lot of information in the fic is true. The origin of Che's asthma is correct and he truly got his attacks triggered by shock and anger, it's also true dogs were actually used in Pinochet's prison camps and Che did indeed order for a puppy to be killed. Though it was more of the "mother kills her crying baby so she isn't found by the enemy" kind of thing, than the mercyless puppy murder media talk about. What to say, I had a good time making research for this fic.  
> Pinochet's remark about Che's grandchildren is referencing to Canek Guevara and so called Lydia Guevara. He had certain problems with Castro's police and she posed for PETA. As for her sake, she isn't a daughter of any of Che's legal children, so it's more of a pop culture reference.


End file.
